Roses and paprika: In memory of my mother

“Hungarian cuisine has four ingredients,” my brother and I used to joke with my mother, teasing her about her roots, “paprika, poppy seeds, melted butter and goose fat.”

Ariel Sharon ranch 311.
(photo credit:Associated Press)

My mother, Lily Sharon, acted instinctively and impulsively. Before dinner at
our house, you could see six pots cooking away on the stove at the same time, as
well as a cake in the oven, and she would be moving like a whirlwind, seasoning
and stirring the pots while crafting colorful flower arrangements.

She
did it all in a heartbeat and simultaneously, and the moment the guests sat
down, straight from the oven would come a poppy seed or date cake, or one of the
many other pastries she baked.

“Hungarian cuisine has four ingredients,”
my brother and I used to joke with my mother, teasing her about her roots,
“paprika, poppy seeds, melted butter and goose fat.”

We laughed at how
passionate the Hungarians are, about how everything is emotional rather than
rational, from the sauces and products that go into their cooking to their
relations with the rest of the world.

My mother never did anything by
halves; there was nothing anemic about her. She was emotion incarnate – those
she loved, she loved, and those she didn’t, she didn’t.

Her food was
outstanding and generous. Anyone who grew up with a good cook for a mother also
experiences her death in the loss of the tastes of their childhood. The pain is
heightened by the sense of longing for the food she used to cook. We were spared
that additional pain. My mother and my wife spent 12 years together, and a good
part of that time was devoted to their shared love of cooking. The flavors are
still exactly the same.

She knew every flower in our garden on the farm
personally.

Some of our rose bushes are the ones she planted 40 years
ago, and they’re still blossoming.

Her love of gardens and flowers meshed
very well with her excellent taste. My mother was beautiful, and always
well-dressed.

I never saw her walking around the house in sweatpants; I
never saw rollers in her hair or sleep marks on her face, not even early in the
morning.

Her superior taste also served her in her work as a
designer.

She designed the same way she cooked, without measuring
anything, but only with a lot of emotion and good taste.

The loyal group
of people who come every year arrived for the memorial ceremony we held for her
on Friday. A bright, cheerful carpet of multi-colored petunias grows on her
grave. The anemones nearby are gone, but all around is green dotted with yellow
daisies. Fat red cows graze in the field, the orchards have begun to flower, and
the smell of spring is in the air. I have no doubt she would have loved the
sight.

Thirteen years have passed since she left us, and sometimes I
suddenly see a butterfly rising from a bed of her flowers, or the pretty dove
that flutters around us whenever we’re in the stables, even at night when the
other doves are asleep. And I think to myself how much it would suit her, suit
her type of humor, this sort of trick – to come to us like this, to stay close
and not be left out. It’s just like her. After all, even when she passed away at
the age of 63, she was still a child at heart.